Posted in Just Funny, Quirks and Other Weirdness

Keep Calm and Be on Time

I like to be on time. Early even. I never hit the snooze alarm. I rarely engage in activities outside the “Getting Ready to Go” framework. I have Time Allotment down to a science. I pride myself on being punctual.

I’d love to pride myself on being a size 8, but punctuality is what I’ve got.

Most of the time.

Occasionally though, Murphy’s Law comes into play. Two weeks ago was one such morning:

7:15 – Pick up buzzing phone. Turn off alarm.  Lament the decision to play Jelly Splash last night until 2 a.m. Check weather app. Blink slowly while checking the temperature and doze back off.

7:16 – Awake seconds later to phone colliding with bridge of nose.

7:17 – Stumble to bathroom. Start water in tub. Make good use of wait time by brushing teeth. Can’t find toothbrush even though it was here last night.

7:20 – Three-minute search reveals toothbrush just below Middle C.  Apparently the toddler used it to clean piano keys last night.

7:21 – Degermify toothbrush in kitchen sink in case she scrubbed more than ivory.

7:22 – Panic and run to turn off bath water just before surface tension hits critical mass and overflows.

7:23 – Drain 4 inches of water. Get into tub.

7:23:15 – Get out of tub, drip water across floor, get washcloth.

7:30 – Wash hair. Lather, rinse, repeat. Reach for conditioner. Also missing. Ugh. Mentally accuse toddler only to discover later the cowboy took my coconut conditioner out to the barn to make the mustang’s manes shiny.

7:35 – Dry off and apply homemade essential oil deodorant. Feel proud I made an aluminum-free deodorant that actually de-odors. Feel stupid I forgot to shave my under pits. (Note to self: No demonstrative praying or cab hailing today.)

7:37 – Pick out clothes. Black pants, aqua top. Attempt to zip pants. Can’t. Lie down on bed, suck in, try zipping again, albeit unsuccessfully.

7:42 – Have a good “I hate my body” cry. While eating a doughnut.

7:45 – Look for abstract maxi skirt to go with aqua top. Instead, find a second pair of black pants and rejoice that the pants I just failed to zip are ones I bought for when I eventually lose the 15 pounds I just gained for the umpteenth time.

7:48 – Apply make-up. Moisturizer. Foundation. Mascara.

7:53 – Sneeze and get mascara schmutz on aqua top.

9faf274d409742d75d1d991f0c0b1d477:57 – Finish make-up. Change dirty top to coral one. Throw aqua one on floor. Think coral is too orangey and looks too Halloweenie with black pants. Change to aqua striped top. Throw coral one on the floor. Stripes make me feel fat today. Who am I kidding? Stripes make me feel fatt-er today. Change to gray top. Throw stripey one on floor. Gray top requires a bra change. Throw first bra on floor. Top off with silver earrings and necklace.

8:06 – Go downstairs and turn on Keurig. Hear rodent. See rodent. Shudder.

8:08 – Bait and set mouse trap.

8:11 – Realize the need to leave in three minutes to make it on time. Detangle unconditioned hair and blow dry.

Hipster-llama-l8:15 – Curse humidity, blow dry some more, contemplate chopping hair off.

8:18 – Blow-dried hair looks like an angry llama today. Tame the brunette beast with a straightener and spray. Heavily.

8:23 – Rush around collecting shoes, purse, glasses, car keys…that are still in the pocket of jeans I wore yesterday under the pile of today’s runway wardrobe malfunctions.  Forego coffee as there is no time now.

8:26 – Rethink jewelry. Can hear Daughter-Face saying, “Matchy-matchy makes you look old, Mom.” Throw silver jewelry on floor and replace with turquoise beads.

8:28 – Start van and squeeze garage door opener. Remote battery dead. Seriously. Sigh in frustration. Jump out and punch opener on the wall before carbon monoxide levels become toxic, back van out of garage, go back and punch button to close door, play Chinese Jump Rope with the invisible motion sensor. Drive.

8:29 – Set cruise at 7 miles over speed limit. Dig through purse for lipstick.

8:30 – Voice text a reminder to self:  Pick up another Bare Minerals Berry Remix Lip Gloss ASAP.  First lipstick I’ve liked in years, so it’s a given they will discontinue it.

MjAxMi00MmI0ZmEyYzAzYjRkNTFk8:36 – Calculate lateness. While doing mental math, space out and miss parkway entrance. Forced now to take longer route through town.

8:38 – Check face in rear-view mirror. Must be a full moon as the lone chin hair has grown in. Dig through purse for tweezers.

8:40 – Attempt to pluck chin hair without looking. Really wish two guys in car next to me had also not been looking.

8:45 – Feeling anxious. Hate being late so so much. 15 minutes over already. Stop at stop sign. Almost there.

8:46 – Wait for stop sign to turn green.

8:47 – Oh. My. Word. Stop SIGNS don’t change color, idiot. Proceed through intersection.

tumblr_inline_nn5tfnePx61qfb043_5008:49 – Pull into parking lot. Ridiculously late. I blame the toddler. And the cowboy. And the mouse. And the humidity. And the sneeze. And the full moon.

And possibly Obama.

Posted in Just Funny, Quirks and Other Weirdness, Uncategorized

That which we call a rose…

My mother calls me “George”.

We’ve had a cat named “Puppy”, a Mustang “Sally”, and a “Charlie” horse.

I have a pair of stuffed animal racoons from high school days dubbed “Smokey” and “Bandit”.

My iPod is named “Soma” after the addictive drug in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Kevin named his “Life Support”.

You already know about the cow called “Patty” and her offspring, “Slider”, and the two calves christened “Norman” and “Mailer”.

For her 4th birthday my daughter received her first Barbie. She could have named her Buffy or Ariel or Jessica, but instead, she chose the prettiest name she knew: LEONARD.

Our vehicles have had the following names:
“Stella!!!” (An ‘old lady’ Buick)
“Tank the Sable Tooth” (The 1992 white Mercury)
“Fiona” (The green monster Taurus)
“Armadillo” (Kevin’s little gray Dodge)
“Lucille” (Kacey’s current van because, and I quote, “She drives like she’s drunk and she’s always kind of angry and loud.)
And, of course, my beloved “Eddie van Honda” Odyssey.

My kids answer to “Daughter-Face” and “Kevie-Poo”.  And Mayah and Charlotte are affectionately known as “Yaya” and “Latte”.

But of all the weirdly-named things in our little world, my favorite was Kevin’s first Beanie Baby. It was a lobster, which, as a preschooler, he pronounced “lomster” and christened it with the biggest word in his little vocabulary: APPARENTLY.
Appawently the Lomster.
Posted in Hippy-Dippy Stuff, Quirks and Other Weirdness

Call me Sybil

I just took a Myers-Briggs personality test because I’d already had dinner and I needed an excuse to not do the dishes. One of the questions was:

  • “Regardless of what other people say, deep down do you feel that you are kind of weird?”

Kind of??

I haven’t always felt this way.  Once upon a time I was a completely normal, self-conscious, easily-embarrassed, “just wanna fit in” kind of girl who spent two hours every morning trying to make her hair look like Farrah Fawcett.(#bighairfail)  But then I gave up my hot rollers and moved to new places and lost people I loved and read Upton Sinclair and developed personality quirks…and embraced my weirdness.

ENFJwordleMyers-Briggs classifies me as an ENFJ (Extraversion, iNtuition, Feeling, Judgment). ENFJs only comprise 3% of the population, so there aren’t that many of us. However, ENFJs are statistically the most likely of the 16 personality types to have a Facebook account, so we do make our presence known. Ha.

A few of my test highlights:

  • It is more important to be: tactful. (Tact over truth. This does NOT mean my pants are on fire.  It means the Feeler in me is more concerned about making you feel all warm and welcome than telling you the “truth” about how your haircut makes you look like your dog.)
  • In everyday life: it is rare to meet someone who seems to be on the same “wavelength” as me. (Yep. Show of hands: how many of you are wanna-be hippies who wear sandals in the snow or birth your babies on the bedroom floor or dream of living in a Tiny House? That’s what I thought.)
  • I think rules and regulations are: necessary for other people.  (True. I fully admit my rebellion. Rules are for toddlers and beginning drivers and people who are incapable of governing themselves. I’m good on at least of those.)  
  • 4c67673e980a15c9a1193ee2a95b700cI am at my best when: my surroundings are clean and uncluttered.  (I know what Einstein said about messy desks, but my inner minimalist NEEDS things neat and orderly and at nice right angles lest she feel completely out of control.)
  • I take pride in being: dependable. (You can count on me, the people-pleaser. Ask me to go back into the burning building to rescue your favorite Kate Spades, and I will risk my life and leg hair to make you happy.  I’m accommodating, generous, helpful…to the detriment of my own well-being.   )

Anyway, I’m weird.  I’ve known it for a long time. My children remind me often.  Even my mom has been known to ask, “When did you get like this??”

I’ve decided it’s because a Feeler, a Hippie, an Anarchist, a Minimalist, and a People-Pleaser all live in my middle-aged body.  It’s crowded in there. And sometimes confusing (like when my mother felt STRONGLY that I should wear a skirt to my Granddaddy’s funeral so Granny would not have a cow.  Now, the Feeler in me did not want to cause Mom further anguish, and the Hippie relished the idea of a flowy skirt, but the Anarchist did not want to adhere to societal conformity, and the Minimalist agreed because she already had a perfectly good pair of black pants in the closet, but the People-Pleaser acquiesced and bought a $40 black skirt that was never worn again.)

So it’s crowded and confusing living in my body. The Anarchist has some very radical opinions about mainstream behaviors you will likely never know because the Pleaser doesn’t want to isolate you, and the Hippie has grandiose “DIY” ideas that stress out the poor Minimalist, and with all that inner conflict, the Feeler just keeps eating mashed potatoes trying to make it all better.

Posted in Hippy-Dippy Stuff, Quirks and Other Weirdness

Mini Me (or “I Want to Be a Tiny Home Owner”)

Dear HGTV,

You make me lust over Tiny Houses. You dedicate no fewer than five shows to these treehouses and miniscule apartments and itty-bitty cabins in the forest, and you make this suburban hippie wanna-be drool over the idea of reducing my carbon, albeit wedge-heeled footprint.

tiny-house-in-the-trees-01And I want one. Like 250-square-feet of luxurious TINY. Seriously, I do. Minimalist Me gets lost in the idea of simplicity. (“Minimalist Me” is not to be confused with “Minimal Me” who got lost in Lane Bryant years ago.)  

ANYWAY… HAVING less makes me feel less…stressed, less distracted, less greedy, less overwhelmed.

The idea of utilizing every square inch makes me giddy. No empty space under the bed for dust bunnies or lost socks.  No wasted 28-foot-long hallway to vacuum.  eclectic-kitchenNo room for superfluous baskets collecting laundry we don’t really even need for another 3 weeks.  No spacious countertops serving as gathering places for dirty dishes and receipts and junk mail and “to do” lists that never get “to done”.

Oh, HGTV, you make it look like a tiny fairy tale. Organized, appealing, immaculate, idyllic.

But before I consider the plunge from excess to existential, I have a few questions:

  1. Where is the best place in a tiny house to install the 80-gallon hot water heater for my jacuzzi tub? And will there be ample storage space for bath salts and essential oils??  (I mean, they aren’t called ESSENTIAL for nothing.)
  2. If I attach a single speaker to an oscillating fan in the center of the dwelling, will it suffice as surround sound in such a small space?
  3. _DSC8105_HDRShould Forest Whitaker and Jared Leto decide to break in during the middle of the night, is the apartment-sized refrigerator capable of doubling as a tiny Panic Room?
  4. When one of our spawn stays for an overnight visit in our tiny house, can we have automatic airbags installed in the floor to serve as additional mattress space? Will this violate fire code?
  5. I understand a retractable wall desk unfolds in front of the compost toilet so the tiny bathroom can also function as my tiny office, but is it possible for another space to double as a tiny workout room? On second thought, nix that. I’ll just post pictures of the exercise equipment so I can continue using it all exactly like I do now.
  6. Where do I go when my significant other eats a not-so-tiny serving of baked beans? Normally, when the flatulent aftershocks hit, I can escape to the far end of the house.  But if the far end of the house is only 7 ½ feet away, am I going to start thinking, “I’ve made a tiny mistake!”?
  7. tiny-house-sanoma-county-2And my last question is, when I light a candle for ambiance, or to mask the effects of the aforementioned baked beans, how long can we survive in the enclosed tiny space before the candle flame reduces the oxygen level to a deadly 19.5%?

Sincerely,
Potential Future HGTV Tiny Home Owner
(That’s “tiny home” owner.  Pretty sure “Tiny Homeowner” is on TLC.)   

Posted in Hippy-Dippy Stuff, Parenting, Quirks and Other Weirdness

crunchier than grape nuts

Sometime ago I was invited to join a “Crunchy Moms Group”.  If you don’t know what that means, you should Google it, but you’ll have to do it later because, frankly, I’m writing a book about a cow and I don’t have the time to wait on you.  

Crunchy moms are women who make their own soap and wear hand-made calico peasant skirts and raise chickens. They grow mushrooms in their compost pile, hug trees, go braless, and eat organic kale chips for breakfast. They bravely venture out in public without makeup, and clean their houses – and their bodies – with nothing but baking soda and vinegar.  They are green, eco-friendly, natural-minded, family-oriented granola eaters. Hence the term “Crunchy Mom”.

And I am not one. But I joined the group anyway, because it seemed like the polite thing to do.

I feel like such a phony.

I’m not crunchy.  If anything, I’m caffeinated.

I haven’t worn a peasant skirt since 1977, Ulta is my happy place, and I wear my 18-hour bra 16 hours a day.  I love my Honda minivan and I collect salad ingredients from the produce aisle, not the garden. In fact, the only mushroom I ever grew was behind the toilet in my humid Georgia apartment (it was fairly impressive if I do say so myself, but I did not feel compelled to eat it).

I will confess that one time I DID eat a kale chip, but thMKG treeen I had to go outside to lick the bottom of the lawn mower to make sure they weren’t the same thing. The verdict is still out on that.  And thanks to Saturday Night Live character, Mary-Katherine Gallagher, the thought of tree-hugging kinda freaks me out.

Clearly, I am NOT a Crunchy Mom. Half-baked maybe, dipped in a little organic coconut oil.

Although, a few months after joining the Crunchy Mom group, I ran across a “How Crunchy Are You?” quiz. (And you should know, I’m a sucker for a good quiz.) The result forced me to admit that I was a co-sleeping, partial-cloth-diapering, non-vaxing, Mooncup-wearing, homebirthing, homeschooling, non-medicating, organic-baby-food-making, recycling rebel whose baby self-weaned at 30 months. Oh yeah, and I’m a doula.

Turns out I’m a  “Granola Earth Mama”. The only thing that saved me from a perfect score of “Crunchier than Grape Nuts” is that I shave my armpits.  Well, sometimes.

 

Posted in Down on the Farm, Quirks and Other Weirdness

…and boppin’ ’em on the head

Once upon a time, Gus and his friends made Cinderella a ballgown, and Mickey made Walt a legend. Princess_Activity_Kit_Page_08_Image_0009The Mighty one was a superhero; the Mexican one was super Speedy. Spielberg brought a little Russian one to America, and E. B. White let his sail a boat in Central Park. There were, apparently, three blind ones, Fievel_Mousekewitzthough Bart Simpson’s was just Itchy. Laura Numeroff gave hers a cookie, and you’ve probably let one named Chuck E. give you a pizza.

So why am I completely freaked out to have one in my house???

I was sitting in the den chair, one foot tucked under me, the other foot on the floor, and my laptop located where its name implies.

Suddenly I sensed it.

You know that feeling you get when there is SOMETHING else in the room with you? I peeked around the 17″ LED screen and THERE IT WAS, not 4 inches from my foot. I screamed silently (since there was no one else around to hear me, I obviously wouldn’t have made a sound anyway), quickly tucked BOTH feet under me, and watched it watch me.

Ewwww.

If-you-give-a-mouse-holding-cookie-e1399593405467

When it was a safe distance away (safe distance = 7 car lengths), I went to get a mousetrap. Not finding one, I came back with a broom.  I dont know why. I guess I thought I could use it as a getaway vehicle if I saw her again.

I say “her” because she was small. And kinda cute. And completely offensive. And though I NEVER gave her a cookie, she still left little chocolate sprinkles in her wake. *Shudder.

I used to have gerbils as pets. Explain this to me.

Anyway, a couple of days and a mousetrap-shopping-spree later, the cowboy trapped one and notified me via text. I breathed a deep sigh of relief…until his second text arrived stating “what a big sucker he was”.

No, no she wasn’t.

She was a wee little thing. Dainty. Delicate. Disgusting. And apparently still vacationing in my house and inviting her friends.

Oh, where is a hungry snake when you need one???

“Mini Mouse” tormented me for days, zipping around corners, scurrying under sofas, bounding across bedroom floors, forcing me to leap into bed and pull the comforter up on all four sides to make CERTAIN she did not have an access ramp to my bed, and by extension, to me. Once she even stared me down from the back of what USED to be my favorite reading chair.

Finally, I broke down and bought glue traps. I know. They are inhumane. Or inrodentane. But this cohabitation arrangement had gone on entirely long enough; it was time for this unwelcome tenant to go! The cowboy lined up several traps in a row, baited them with cat food (which works great in the absence of an ACTUAL cat) and within the hour we heard her. And saw her. She raced under the couch, around the leather stool, across the brick hearth, landing on one of the glue traps with the finesse of an Olympic medalist, and went flying across the floor like a sticky Jamaican bobsledder.

I will not tell you what happened next, though a reference to Little Bunny Foo-Foo would be appropriate.

Go ahead, Good Fairy, goon me.

The End.

I hope.
I really, really hope.